Rustam was the only grown up from the outside world who was our friend.
He was the arm wrestling champion of our street in Rampura; the street where Usmania orphanage was located in a corner. And he had never been beaten. He was soooo powerful and big, and brave!
Bravery was a big deal in our street.
All the little boys wanted to be brave, and especially, we in the orphanage.
When Rustam won the inter-mohala arm-wrestling championship and the big boys carried him home on their shoulders, we saw the show from our kitchen windows, and the gaps in the outer gate. ‘Is a lion! Is a lion!” they were chanting, “Our Rustam is a lion!” And the great Rustam was up, above their shoulders, smiling and laughing and giggling, as he waved and kissed his silver trophy.
He gave that trophy to us!
It stood there, on the tall cupboard in the common hall, where we slept at night – all fifty of us – in one long file; where, there wasn’t any light. When we were scared, our gazes would shuffle in the dark, locating the trophy, and finding it would make us feel stronger, as though, we had found Rustam.
So when Gulu told me about the Well of Death – Gulu was Rustam’s brother – and I thought that, I would never be seeing one in real life, it was Rustam who took me to see it. And though, the cars in the wooden cup were fast and rumbustious, and the whole contraption, shaky, I knew I was safe with him.
He always wore an invincible smile. And there was something about him, I thought, something deep inside him, which could never be broken.
He was the only grown up from the outside world who was my friend.
Yes, I was always out to prove that I was quite brave myself, and so it was no surprise that on that hot, quiet, June noon, I went to fetch that ball from the house of the Bougainvillea, only to cheer Rustam up.
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We were told that the Bougainvillea was sleeping, and that it must not be roused, especially, on hot summer noons when the warden was sleeping, and we were not allowed outside. Then, they said, it grew limbs, and turned.
That house was a terrible sight, with weather worn walls overlaid with purple wastes of Bougainvillaea flowers, and grey vines dying away along the rusty drains, and the tall mango tree in the yard with its quiet and single shadow, cast like a spell on the frayed, latticed parapets, and rain marred columns. Just the sight of it made our little hearts rush, like mice hearts.
And now the ball was there.
I, Lalu, Gulu and Moodi, who’d been playing cricket on the roof of the orphanage, were looking from over a wall, across the roof of the common hall behind it, at the house which was on the far side, and all we could see was the mango tree and parts of the great Bougainvillea which was sleeping, it seemed.
“Somebody has to go,” Gulu said suddenly.
Being Rustam’s brother, Gulu was a bit of a boss to us. And since we had not seen Rustam in weeks, he was our only informant about him. He had been telling us that Rustam had been shrinking and going sick and pale; that, they were afraid that he was being eaten out from inside, because his strength was waning, and all in all he was being ‘languorous’ – Gulu quoted a big word which he had heard from his father. He quoted a lot, and sometimes in the voice of the person he was quoting. But we didn’t believe him about Rustam, really, it was all too unbelievable.
“What does it mean for a Bougainvillea to wake up?” Lalu asked all of a sudden, his mouth open and eyes out.
“My brother was saying,” Gulu said, “no boy must ever go there.”
“Rustam?” I confirmed. “He said that?”
Gulu nodded.
And I wondered why Rustam would say that. The great Rustam? If he wished, he could take that whole Bougainvillea in one hand, and swing it around and toss it into the river, if he wished!
“Yes, Rustam told me this – he said, ‘Gulu, it’s not right to go there. It’s not a nice place.’ ” Gulu twisted his lips and scratched his head. “But I think, a really brave boy…maybe? Oh, I don’t know. Besides, Rustam is not well. He’s in a real bad way. ”
Gulu was older than us. I mean, he was twelve going to thirteen and we were not yet eleven, and he knew a hell lot of things. He said, “Now, I’m going to tell you kids one thing, which you’re not going to tell anyone. And it is this: My brother Rustam is in love.”
“Love?” all three of us said together, thrusting our heads forward, our jaws down.
“Of course,” Gulu said with a shrug, “love!”
All of three of us gasped. “Oh?”
“With that girl, Kalsoom.” Gulu revealed. “Well, Rustam doesn’t say it. But we know.”
“Baji Kalsoom, who’s getting married?” Moodi asked. This Moodi was another boy from the street, and he was the one who’d been bowling to me earlier. He had bowled a bouncer which I’d hooked: the ball had taken the edge of the bat and lobbed up, over the wall, then tipped across the roof of the common hall, and fallen into that yard.
“Shhh, quiet!” Gulu frowned. “Yes, Kalsoom. Doctor Sahib’s daughter, who’s marrying that mouse.”
“Mouse?”
“Don’t be like you don’t know. But maybe you don’t,” Gulu shook his head. “You boys live in here. You have no idea of what’s going on out there.” He pointed with his thumb toward the street. “He’s a boy down the street who’s going to be a dentist. Moodi knows.”
“Nomi bhai?” Moodi said, suddenly remembering something which made his face contort, as in revulsion. “He’s so small!”
“Why would Kalsoom baji say yes to him, over the great Rustam?” I asked. I hated this Kalsoom Baji for making Rustam sick and weak, and all those things Gulu said, though, I knew it must be temporary, whatever it was. And I didn’t really believe Gulu. But who does she think she is? I thought. If Rustam wished…
“I think, Rustam is going to die.” Gulu announced with a sigh.
Silence ensued. I felt – as, perhaps, did Lalu and Moodi – that somebody had punched me in the heart. “You’re always making things up,” I spat out at Gulu.
“Boy, you’re just a kid,” Gulu said coolly. “What do you know about the ways of elders? He’s not eating at all, my brother Rustam.”
Gulu loved to be dramatic, so now, he was whispering. “He closed himself in a room for three full days. He did not eat. Did not speak a word. And my Amma was mad! You know, how my Amma goes mad? Only today he went out after so many days in that room. Now, the wedding is coming, but he said he won’t be attending it. Now tell me this, Mr. Einstein, who doesn’t attend a wedding in their own street? Besides, I heard Amma, when she was saying to Abba, ‘I’m telling you, Rusti’s Abba, your boy has a thing for Kalsoom!’ ” Gulu started mimicking his mother’s sharp, whiny voice, and it was so much like real thing that it made our eyebrows stick up, and heads bow down in her respect. “‘Why you didn’t tell me this before, Rusti? Why you never tell me anything? I’d have gone to doctor sahib’s house, and I’d have begged him, I’d have grabbed his feet – if I had to! We’re not poor people. We’ve got our own land, back in the village. Why you never tell your mother anything? Why’re you so quiet, Rusti? Look now, how late it is now. But it’s their fathers who fixed this marriage, do you know that? We could’ve fixed it too, if you’d told me! Tell me now, tell me, do you still want me to go, son? But listen, Rusti, there will be others. Other girls, prettier than Kalsoom. Now, Rustam did not like this. He grunted, like this: Umh! And he got up on his feet and walked off, to the door and out.”
“Umh!” I heard that in my head, and I imagined Rustam smiling that invincible smile of his, up on the brim of the wooden cup of the Well of Death. Then I saw him on the shoulders of the boys, giggling like a child. I thought, nobody can beat the great Rustam, least of all a mouse.
Gulu pouted and shook his head. Amma was like, “Do you still want me to go? Why you never tell me anything? You are such a nice boy Rustam, you have so much love in your heart for everybody … but what’s wrong with you? Now listen to me, boys. He’s my brother but I’m saying this. He’s sick. He’s lost his power, too. And he’s getting smaller! I think… he’s going to die.”
Silence ensued. No. Rustam can’t die. I thought. Could he?
Lalu started crying. And I heard, what he had said earlier. What does it mean for the Bougainvillea to wake up?
I remembered the ball. I thought, If the great Rustam said that something couldn’t be done, and then, if someone were to do it, what would it mean? And, what if Rustam were to know that somebody went to the house of the Bougainvillea, and brought back the ball? Wouldn’t he be so proud? Soooo proud? I began to contemplate the possibility of climbing the wall, crossing the roof, and going down the ladder.
Then, as if, he had read my mind, Gulu said, “If a boy were to go there, and get that ball, it might even cheer Rustam up.”
And Lalu and Moodi said simultaneously, “Yes, yes!”
And all three were looking at me.
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The whole street must have been asleep, because the silence seemed to belong to some uninhabited island in a forgotten waste of the sea, except that, there was no sound of waves, or rustle of wind through the trees. There was no air, in fact, and everything was absolutely still.
What does it mean for a Bougainvillea to breathe? I thought, with a swallow. And then immediately, Could Rustam really die?
I climbed over the wall of Usmania orphanage, walked across the roof of the common hall, with beads of sweat crawling down my neck, back and legs. I reached the railing around that roof, and looked down from over it. The tall bamboo ladder stood against the wall of the empty house with its feet in the yard, and seemed very, very long. But still, the mango tree rose above it, and not a leaf was moving on it.
And all around it sprawled the green and purple monster. “Sleeping,” I told myself.
Oh, and it was soooo enormous! I’ve never seen a Bougainvillea that big ever again in my life. It covered the top of the entire outer wall – the one with a faded, padlocked, wooden door; and it made almost a circle around the yard, with the only gap being where the ladder stood against the wall, down which I was looking.
It was all over the latticed parapets above the wall opposite to where I was standing, and it fell through the gaps in those lattices like waterfalls, all the way down to the two arched entrances to a corridor. A part of it turned into the corridor, and crept along the ceiling, toward the inner rooms, and corners I couldn’t see.
On my side, to the left of the ladder, it burgeoned in a misshapen arch over an open latrine, branching and crawling horizontally over the door of this latrine, so that it turned into a roof of sorts. And lastly: on the wall between the corridor and the latrine it was so thick that I couldn’t see what was behind it.
In parts, this Bougainvillea was dry and twiggy, but in others it was green and full and loaded with bundles of purple bells, with pale flowerets on the pistils.
There was a flight of stairs, with old, moldy steps, along the middle wall – one which was covered, beginning from the mouth of the latrine and going for the roof, but breaking off at half point because rest of it had caved in. And now the Bougainvillea was cascading up these half stairs and falling down from there to the yard, like a woman’s long hair.
At this point, I was still up there at the railing, at the top of the ladder looking down, and suddenly, I felt the urge to turn and go. But as I looked back, I saw the three small heads of Moodi, Lalu and Gulu, eyeing me from behind the wall of the orphanage – the one I’d hopped over. Even from a distance, Lalu’s cheeks looked stained from the tears he’d shed. Rustam is going to die? No, Rustam is the arm wrestling champion of our street! I told myself. I’ll go slow on the ladder. If I see or hear anything strange, I’ll climb back up, quickly!
Every step made a squeak, but a small, dull one. The upper half of the ladder which was in the sun, was so hot it singed my hands, but as soon as I got to the lower half, in the shade of the mango tree, the rungs became cooler. The whole atmosphere was cooler down there. The mango tree was very dense, and taller than other mango trees. It umbrellaed over the entire yard so that the sun was faint on the floor; and so many dead leaves lay there, in all shades of green, brown and yellow, and between them, the lilacs, the purples of the Bougainvillea, which were also gathered in small heaps in the corners.
Once in the yard, I decided I’d not be looking up, at the Bougainvillea. Instead, I’d keep my eyes down on the floor, or on other things. I will not look at it.
But is it looking? The thought was there, always at the back of my mind.
There were four rather slender flowerbeds in the yard, hedged by bricks with patches of a whitewash, like all the other walls; and these flowerbeds brimmed with wild Portulaca that truly seemed to be the only living resident of that deserted place. One of these flowerbeds lay along the outer wall. One ran along the wall of the latrine, and the last two flanked the two entrances of the corridor, between which – but at some height above them – there was a rusted rod with a bulb socket protected by a large, hollow cup, also rusted, where a sparrow had made its nest.
The sparrow was out somewhere.
What does it mean for a Bougainvillea to turn? Something cold moved in me.
Once again, I was seized by the desire to bolt. But I knew now the ladder was tall and the way it had creaked, I couldn’t go too fast on it. In fact, I didn’t want to hurry. Of course, I was scared. I was, but my fear was confined to myself. And that seemed important. I didn’t want my presence felt. I didn’t want to hurry, because, I didn’t want it to hear…. I didn’t want to wake it up. Is it watching? I was breathing fast. I was smothering the sound of my breath.
There’s nothing here, nothing here, I was reciting in my head. I’ll just go slow and quietly and nothing’s going to happen. But if I see anything, like a shadow, I’ll run. But otherwise, I’ll be quiet. Quiet. Quietly, I will look for the ball.
There were a few other balls there, but they were cheap and busted, and I couldn’t see our ball: the brand-new, orange one.
When I had looked everywhere, including the flowerbeds, the Portulaca growths, the leaves and heaps in the yard, the parts of the corridor that I could see, and, along all the walls, only the Bougainvillea remained. And I could no longer not look at it. It was there, anyway. Not that my not looking was going to make it go away.
I will look under it quickly. I thought. It’s just a plant. Just a plant. What will Rustam think, when I tell him about it? He will laugh. But… I will not look at all of it at once … it’s alright, I’ll tell Rustam about it later.
I started slowly.
I walked like air under the vine, looking up every now and then, to see if the ball was stuck inside. But there was no sign of it. However, the searching process took my mind off the surroundings and relaxed me a little.
I was constantly reminding myself, It’s alright… it’s alright… only two more minutes now, just a minute and some more… one minute and a few seconds… then I’ll show Rustam what I’ve done. How brave is this? Rustam will wink and smile too. But where… where, where could it go? It’s not in the yard and not in the Bougainvillea. Surely, it couldn’t have hopped onto the tree!
I went over to the latrine door; a flimsy, tin contraption blue with flaky paint. It was ajar, otherwise, I wouldn’t have risked opening it, because, it was certain to make a crying screech. I peered in through the gap in the door. The whole place was cluttered with purple-green waste; dead leaves had lain a thick carpet on the floor, the walls were black and green with mold, and right in front of the door was an old discolored sink, now a waste basket of rotten lilac. The drain pipe was broken, and under it lay three loose bricks, moldy as well. Above the sink was a cracked mirror with brown spots on it, in which I caught a glimpse of my face but didn’t linger on it, as I still didn’t want my presence felt, even to myself.
At this point, I was about to turn and go, when I saw the ball. And I wondered, How did I miss it when I was looking down from the top of the ladder? The orange ball was stuck in a dry part of the Bougainvillea in the center of twiggy roof of the latrine. It was a dry clutter of brown branches where it was sitting.
A sunbeam that had managed to steal in through the foliage of the mango tree fell on exactly this confusion of twigs, as though, setting it on fire, and the orange ball was in the center, like a little sun itself.
I still didn’t want to open the door. And luckily, I was little and very thin, and once I had expelled all the air from my lungs it was possible for me to sidle in through the gap that was there, and so I did. I wasn’t shaking. I wasn’t afraid. I even had the sense to pick up those bricks from under the sink and stack them at the center of the latrine. And that was all I needed, because the carpet of leaves was already quite thick. And then, I stood on top of this stack, on my toes, and got the ball in the tips of my fingers. It slipped out once, but only to roll down to a lower pocket in the branches, from where I picked it up easily.
Yes, I think, I should’ve left then. I have thought about this … that had I left then, then maybe I wouldn’t have remembered any of this incident of my childhood. After all, what’s so special about going to an old house to fetch a ball, and haven’t we all done it – or something like it – and forgotten all about it? But I didn’t leave, just then.
As I grabbed the ball, and brought it down, I saw what had “grown” from under it. And I say grown, because, it hadn’t been there earlier, or maybe, I hadn’t seen it, because the ball had been sitting on it.
What an extraordinary flower! A big, purple bell, with three tender flowerets in its heart, ensconced in that cushion of dry twigs. How can it grow in the middle of these dead branches? I asked myself. And the Bougainvillea was still sleeping. The sunbeam fell on the bell and made it glow.
The whole thing looked like another world, on fire, with a cold and purple sun fallen on it. It was stunning, really. Perhaps, hypnotizing is the word for it. Certainly, it cast a spell on me. I wandered off in it.
Yes, I had lost all sense of fear in that moment, because, I must’ve stood there for three minutes and more, and never once thought about the Bougainvillea. I had stood and stared, as the purple flower glowed in that burning nest of orange.
That is when I heard Rustam’s voice.
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The Bougainvillea was sleeping, and the whole place was silent.
They had stepped out to the yard from one of the rooms in the corridor. I reckoned they had walked over to somewhere near the latrine door, but I only saw shadows.
“You do understand what I’m saying? You have nothing to fear!” Rustam was saying. “You can’t go through with this wedding. Look, don’t you trust me? Please trust me!” He was desperate.
I heard my heart in my throat first and then, my mouth, and it was fluttering not beating, pumping air, not blood. So real it was, that it wasn’t real. Loud! And yet it was soooo distant!
I thought I, too, was some dead part of the Bougainvillea. A twig. I didn’t move lest I snap, but my grip around the ball was so severe that it could be an extension of myself. Though, I was in a disconnected frame of mind I had the sense to stay put. Nobody could see me in the latrine.
What is Rustam doing here? I thought. Then I remembered what Gulu had told us on the roof, in his mother’s voice. “Why don’t you tell your mother anything? I would have grabbed his feet. Do you still want me to go? Why don’t you tell me? You are such a nice boy Rustam, you have so much love in your heart for everybody … but what’s wrong with you?”
“But you don’t understand,” said another voice. A man’s voice. “This… what we do… this… nobody will tolerate this.”
“But Nomi!” Rustam pleaded. “Look. No one will know. Look, just come with me.” He was forcing. He was a wrestler. I remembered that chant, “Is a lion! Is a lion! Our Rustam is a lion! ” But the lion was a shadow, and sounded crushed, and on the edge of a cry. “I have loved you for eight years.”
Years later, when I’d be a big boy myself and hear my fellows about the sudden disappearance of the legendary Rustam Aziz on the night of Kalsoom’s wedding, this voice would ring in my mind; this one on the edge of a cry, and suddenly I would be hearing Gulu in my ear, imitating his mother on the roof of the orphanage, “You are such a nice boy Rustam, you have so much love in your heart for everybody … but what’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t you read the papers, Rustam?” Nomi was afraid. I was a child but I had been afraid, too, and I could sense fear in that voice. He paused. “Didn’t you hear, those two heads they found in the swamp?”
Suddenly, I had this weird feeling that the Bougainvillea was speaking too – whispering, rather, echoing everything those two were saying. Low and rustling was its voice, “Those two heads they found in the swamp.”
“The boys who carried you on their shoulders will spit on you,” Nomi was saying, “and I have an uncle, Rustam. A very pious man, with a following.’
“I will not let…!” Rustam was being heroic. I heard the chanting, “Is a lion! Is a lion! Our Rustam is a lion!”
“No,” Nomi cut him off. “Oh God. Nobody must know, until the end!” Then suddenly he asked, in the voice of some bewildered child, “Why am I like this, Rusti?”
Silence – except the echo, “Why am I like this?”
Yes, I think the Bougainvillea was echoing – and moving! For the first time, the little twigs had closed into tiny fists, rotating like tightening screws, and the leaflets had begun to thrill. It seemed, as though, a great snake was uncoiling. The silence was long, and I sensed the shadows moving.
A while must have passed before I heard that abrupt “What?” Rustam’s voice. “What’s the matter, Nomi? What is it?” The vicious whisper echoed, “What is it?”
I figured it out later, that Nomi must have seen me in the mirror on the sink, my cracked face between those brown dots. I was standing close behind the door and the mirror was to my side, and all Nomi had to catch was a shadow.
Rustam was the one who opened the latrine door. And it did make a loud cry. And, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was half the size I remembered him being; those great shoulders had caved in, and that full face had turned sallow. He seemed on the brink of collapse. Even I believed Gulu now. He was going to die. He really is going to die! I thought and felt nauseous. “Going to die!” said the evil echo.
“You?” he said, rather he quavered it out.
Everything was alive, but I was frozen. Has it woken up now? Is it staring at us? Somehow I stammered out, “I.. I’m…I …ball…” And I showed him the orange ball.
Behind him, Nomi was scrambling to put on his pants. Then, he was running. He was little, like they said, and he was hysteric, “No! No, No, No!”
“Nomi, please, stop Nomi!” Rustam was begging him.
The echo whispered lingeringly, “Nomi!”, and the echo was followed by the sounds of breaking twigs, and movement.
Nomi was not going to stop.
Rustam looked at me, stunned. What a wreck he was too, that gaunt-faced, hollow-eyed, shell of a man, who fell on his knees before me.
The ball dropped from my hand and bounced. The sounds of the tips on the floor were like the steps of someone approaching me from behind, on all fours.
I could feel it breathing, right over my shoulder.
